Standing at the railing in the failing
summer light, Robinson turns his collar
against the clammy air. Sees cars

whizzing across the Brooklyn Bridge
from here. Hears the last party
of the season wheezing to a close.

Grade-A-O.K. with me, he says. Stares.
Wires swoop like gulls down to who-knows-where.
Thinks about jumping. Thinks of going home early.

Soon. Alone. Then someone sees him—

drunk…
          making eye contact…
                                        swoon.

There’s something sexy in desolation.